


The Three Mothers of the Antichrist

by ChummyGeekery



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventures in Tadfield, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), F/M, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pregnant Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Queerplatonic Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), a hell of a lot of comedy for a dark-ish premise, or that the babyswap cockup was purely accidental?, pregnancy fluff, rated M to be on the safe side, who said the Antichrist had to be a boy?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChummyGeekery/pseuds/ChummyGeekery
Summary: The Youngs have left their busy lives in Swindon, and moved to the Cotswolds village of Tadfield to raise their unborn child near Arthur's family. Restless and lonely, Deirdre lands on something of a 'summer project' when she meets Antonia Crowley. "Crowley," as she prefers to be known, is also new to Tadfield: a taciturn, darkly stylish Londoner who is (gasp)pregnant and single.Since no one else in the village will befriend Crowley, Deirdre decides that it's up to her.She has no idea what she's getting herself into.-----Aziraphale hasn't seen or heard from Crowley in five months. He assumes the demon is taking another one of his marathon naps, until Gabriel appears and announces that "things are afoot." Now that he has Upstairs' blessing (so to speak) to track down his friend, Aziraphale is about to get the shock of his life.-----Crowley wishes the Antichrist child would stop kicking her. Because bless it, despite her best efforts, she's getting attached. The little hellspawn feels so innocent, sohuman. The last thing she wants to do is hand it over to be raised under Hell's influence. But with the help of friends both old and new, perhaps she can find another way.
Relationships: Arthur Young | Mr. Young/Deirdre Young, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Deirdre Young (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 86





	1. We Plan, Somebody Laughs

Harriet and Thaddeus Dowling had lots of plans1 for the birth of their first child. And all those plans would end up going to shit.

Thaddeus was the American ambassador to the United Kingdom. The U.S. government didn’t believe in any namby-pamby socialist _paternity leave._ But a civil servant of Thaddeus’s rank received generous, flexible ‘family and medical leave’. The Dowlings planned for Tad to fly back to the U.K. and start his leave on August 28th, two weeks before Harriet’s scheduled cesarean. This would give them ample time to share in the “nesting” process at their official London residence. And to pose for the professional photographs for Harriet’s baby book.

Tad was standing in the TSA line at Dulles when the President’s personal secretary called. Tad’s work trip had been extended indefinitely. “Important State business with the President himself,” was the given reason. This did not satisfy Harriet. She spent the next few hours flinging cell phone calls across the pond, demanding explanations. She tried Tad’s secretary. Tad himself. The President’s secretaries. The President himself2. No dice. All that anyone would tell her was “important State business.”

Though it was funny: she didn’t get the sense they were blowing her off, or even stonewalling her for security reasons. There was a weird, squirming undertone to their excuses. If Harriet didn’t know better, she’d say that none of them actually knew why Tad was being held up.

How “important” could this State business be, Harriet wondered, if no one even knew what it was?

It was infuriating. But a diplomat’s wife and Wellesley alum doesn’t scream and throw her BlackBerry across the room. At least, not when the house staff are present.

Instead, Harriet practiced her Lamaze breathing until she’d regained a sense of control. She had the new assistant housekeeper- a nervous young man named Eric- bring her a microwaved burrito, and a cup of decaf in her KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON mug. She ate, then showered and dressed for a gala tonight that she and Tad were _supposed_ to attend together.

She reminded herself that this whole fiasco could blow over in just a few days; “very important business” was usually highly time bound. She’d finished dressing early. So she grabbed her BlackBerry and, with the difficulty to which she’d become accustomed, found a comfy position on the sofa. She opened her calendar, determined to cram two weeks of co-parental bonding experiences into one.

And she would have done it, too, if her waters hadn’t broken.

She screamed and threw her BlackBerry across the room. (Screw it. She was in labor now; that gave her a pass.) She called Tad again and read him the Riot Act. Then she called St. Mary’s to tell them she was on her way.

That’s when things got weird. 

“I’m sorry, but the entire obstetric ward is temporarily closed,” said the receptionist. “There’s been a… freak incident, but we’re hoping that Pest Control will have it sorted out shortly.”

Harriet’s mind went a bit hazy then. For some reason, she didn’t demand a better explanation. Instead she hung up, put her head in her hands, and wailed.

“ _I want Taaaad!_ ”

“I’m sure we can get him on videophone, ma’am,” offered one of the Secret Service agents. Frankly, they were more unnerved by the crying than they’d been by the throwing of the BlackBerry.

“Nooo! I wanna be _with_ him! I want him holding my hand! I’d get on a plane this instant except there’s no way in hAAAAH!” 

Harriet screamed and clutched her stomach. A full-blown contraction had hit her out of nowhere. Didn’t her doula say that they were supposed to ramp up gradually?3

When the contraction finally passed,4 Harriet let out a quiet sob. “There’s no way in hell that _any_ commercial flight would let me on.”

She rocked back and forth on the sofa, panting and whimpering. Two Secret Service agents stood by, silent and awkward. The young housekeeper approached and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, your Lady Ambassadorship?” He looked at her shyly out of the corner of his eye. “If, erm, a commercial flight won’t let you on… how about a military one?”

*****

There was a plane available at a U.S. Army airbase forty minutes outside of London, in rural Oxfordshire. The cheery ambulance driver told Harriet the name of the village nearest the airbase. It was overly quaint, cloyingly English. “Taddsford” or “Toaddefield”- something like that. Harriet didn’t care.

She was manically optimistic as they set out. She had two Secret Service agents with her in the back of the ambulance. She had four more escorting them on motorcycles, LED headlights slicing through the English fog. She had Tad on the handheld videophone. She had monitors strapped to her belly, beneath her satin gown. She had a medic monitoring her contractions and the baby’s heartbeat. She had this Lamaze breathing thing down to a freaking _art._

In short, she had a new plan.

But it gradually dawned on her: the one thing she didn’t have was time. Her contractions were five minutes apart and a crushing sixty-five seconds long. They could have the Concord waiting for them at Tumnusfarne Airbase, and she’d still land in Washington with her newborn in her arms. Harriet thought ruefully of what her Oma used to say: _We plan, God laughs._ 5

The medic opened the window to the cab. “She can’t fly,” she told the driver. “We need to find somewhere to deliver this baby.”

“Oh! Not to worry,” said the driver. “There’s a birthing hospital, just down the road.”

“Okay fine!” Harriet snapped. “Whatever!”

“You’ll be in good hands, ma’am,” said the driver. “Lovely Sisters they are, St. Beryl’s. Though they are quite chatty, for nuns-“

The rest of his shpiel was cut off by Harriet screaming through her next contraction.

“This is all _your_ fault,” she snarled at Tad. He cowered at the edge her video view. “If you’d just _been here_ , I wouldn’t be barreling through goddamn Sherwood Forest to a-“

The ambulance slowed to a stop. Harriet fell back on the stretcher, closed her eyes and sighed.

“We’re here. Oh thank God.”

“Not quite, ma’am,” said the driver.

“ _What?_ ”

“Stranded motorists, ma’am. They appear to be in some distress.”

The agents’ walkies crackled with terse updates from their biking counterparts. The roadside civilians were deemed not a threat. And they did need assistance- quite desperately, in fact. The agents moved to open the ambulance’s back doors.

“Unbelievable,” Harriet intoned. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and somehow we come across-“

“Arthuuur! Get in here!”

“I can’t, Deirdre, there’s not enough room! I’ll just… Tonia, would you forget the bloody glasses? Come on. Oof. Up you go…”

“ _Are you freaking kidding me?_ ” Harriet gaped.

They were in the middle of nowhere, and somehow they’d come across not one, but _two_ other women in labor. The Secret Service agents reached out to pull them into the ambulance, while their fussing partners pushed them up from behind.

One of the women looked like she’d just walked off the set of _The Vicar of Dibley._ She wore a floral synthetic-knit dress, an oversized velvet coat and a blonde bob. Even her wordless moans had a thick Midlands accent. She slumped onto the bench seat past Harriet’s right foot. As the ambulance got going again, her pain seemed to taper off. She rubbed her stomach soothingly, looked up and smiled brightly at Harriet.

“Three at once! Imagine that! The Sisters’ve got a busy night in store, haven’t they? I’m Deirdre Young.”

“Harriet Dowling,” Harriet replied. “Pleasure.”

“Ooh! Are you American, Harriet?”

“Yeah. Um… Is she okay?”

The other woman braced herself on the edge of the bench past Harriet’s left foot. She writhed in pain, long legs akimbo, head thrown back. Her teeth were bared and her eyes screwed shut. Her nostrils flared as she hissed frantically. She looked to be in agony, but willing herself not to cry out. She arched her back impossibly far, as if trying to distance herself from her protruding belly.

“I think it’s her eyes. Well- on top of everything else,” Deirdre explained to Harriet. “She’s very light-sensitive. Never seen her without sunglasses, even at night.”

Harriet looked pointedly at the Secret Service agents. They fished around their suit pockets until one of them found a spare pair of shades. He proffered them to the long-legged woman. Her pain seemed to be easing. She took the glasses and nodded politely- all without opening her eyes. She smoothed the glasses into place _just so,_ then slumped back on the bench.

“Thankss Deirdre.” She looked in Harriet’s general direction. “You too. Thanks.”

She had a low alto voice with a touch of a lisp, and more than a touch of Estuary. She looked like she’d just walked out of a Melissa Etheridge concert. She wore black from head to toe, a tailored jacket, silver chains and snakeskin boots.

“Don’t mention it. You’re Tonia, right?” Harriet asked.

The woman shook her head. “Prefer Crowley.”

“I’ve told Arthur, time and again,” Deirdre smiled sheepishly. “But he’s a stubborn old sod, when he wants to be. Says ‘men go by their surnames with friends, but women _absolutely do not.’_ ”

 _Especially not pregnant and unmarried ones?_ wondered Harriet. Crowley was smoothing back her long auburn hair with shaking hands. Harriet saw no ring. Although, interestingly, she did spot a dark tattoo by Crowley’s ear. It sort of looked like… was that a snake?6

Harriet tapped the nearest agent’s wrist; he showed her his watch. “Okay. I’ve got, like, two more minutes,” she announced. “And then you ladies are really gonna hate me.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Deirdre chortled. “Me too. I’m only four minutes apart.”

“Me too! Well- four and a half,” said Harriet. “And trust me, I did _not_ plan on coming in this late. It just hit me outta nowhere…”

“Didn’t it?” Deirdre marveled. “I _told_ Arthur we didn’t have as much time as we thought! And then we all had to leave right in the middle of that lovely garden party, didn’t we, Crowley?”

“Nn? Oh right. Yeah,” muttered Crowley. She offered no details on the progression of her own labor. Unlike the other two, she didn’t rub her bump or rest her hands on it between contractions. She stared into the middle distance. She almost looked morose.

Harriet cleared her throat. “You, um, you ladies know what you’re having?”

“Arthur and I wanted a surprise,” said Deirdre. “You?”

Harriet beamed. “It’s a girl.”

“Oh how lovel-“

“Shit. Shit! SHIT!”

Crowley smacked her knees and stomped her feet. The junior Secret Service agent slowly reached towards his holster, until Harriet shot him a dirty look.

“Bloody heaven, what if they…? If they’re not…?” Crowley panted. “H- how’re we gonna…?”

“It’s okay, honey, just breathe,” Harriet coached.

“S’alright, love,” Deirdre soothed. “I’m sure whatever you have, Ezra will be very happy.”

“No, he won’t!” she moaned. “None of us will! Not in the End! ‘Cos it’s all going to-“

“ _Holy freaking hell!_ ” Harriet screamed as she was gripped with her worst contraction yet. Deirdre wailed and clutched her belly, while Crowley arched her back and hissed again. It had already felt quite snug in here. Now, it felt like the most infernally crowded ambulance in the history of ambulances.

They squealed to a halt. Crowley’s sunglasses fell off and skittered across the ambulance floor. The women’s contractions subsided. Deirdre and Harriet sat back and breathed. Crowley awkwardly tried to lean past her belly, muttering curses and pawing blindly at the floor.

The back doors swung open, letting in an extremely welcome gust of cool night air. A man with fluffy white hair and a tan three-piece suit stood before them. He smiled with practiced benevolence.

“Hello.” He paused a beat. “I’m Doctor Fell. I will be-“

“Oh, Ezra!” Deidre cooed. “You never mentioned you were a doctor. But how’d you get here before us?”

“Well I, erm-“

Deirdre struggled to her feet. Harriet heard a small plastic _crunch_ underfoot. “Ooh. Sorry, love,” Deirdre winced.

Crowley snarled. “Aziraphale! Make me another-“

Deirdre screamed.

It wasn’t a labor scream. It was something else, just as ancient- but much more terrified. She and Crowley scrambled back against opposite walls. Deirdre kept screaming. Crowley stared at Deirdre in a panic.

That’s when Harriet saw Crowley’s eyes. She screamed. The medic screamed. The Secret Service agents screamed.

Crowley turned her golden, reptilian eyes to something outside the ambulance. “DO IT, ANGEL!” she roared. “DO IT _NOW!_ ”

**Snap.**

*****

The babies about to be delivered by Deirdre Young, English housewife; Harriet Dowling, American diplomat’s wife; and Crowley, an Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards; would all be girls. They would also be Virgos. The entry for Virgo in the _Tadfield Advertiser_ on the night our history begins reads as follows:

**VIRGO. August 24-September 23.**

**You may be feeling overwhelmed by major changes in your life. A close companion may suddenly become distant. Try to go with the flow and ‘love the ones you’re with.’ Now could be an auspicious time to start those music lessons that you’ve been considering.**

This was perfectly correct on every count- except for the bit about the music lessons.

To understand the true significance of what that means, we need to begin earlier. A little more than three months earlier, to be precise. That’s when Deirdre Young, who would end up raising the Antichrist,7 struck up an unlikely friendship with the Antichrist’s birthmother.8

It started, as it will end, with a broken-down car.

*****

1\. As is usually the case in these matters, it was really Harriet who had all the plans; Thaddeus just went along with things.

2\. She was speechless when George Dubya himself actually answered. Harriet considered herself a ‘confident, assertive woman.’ But she wasn’t a _narcissist._ Receiving a personal apology from the most powerful man on Earth was a humbling moment for her.

3\. The doula did say that; but then, she wasn’t accounting for possible demonic intervention.

4\. Harriet didn’t time her first contraction. But one of her Secret Service agents did. It lasted 52 seconds. If Harriet’s doula had been there, she would have fainted.

5\. Although in this case, it was somebody else on the supernatural plane who was laughing.

6\. Current condition aside, she would _definitely_ fit in at a Melissa Etheridge concert. Particularly one held in the Arizona desert.

7\. Although Deirdre wouldn’t know about the whole Antichrist business.

8\. Or the whole adoption business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why Melissa Etheridge? Well... Last Halloween, I cosplayed TV!Crowley for a costume party at a lesbian bar. No one got the reference; but I did get a few compliments on my 'Melissa Etheridge costume.'
> 
> So there you have it.


	2. Maggie May

The car was an aquamarine 1991 Kia Pride Supermini called “Maggie May.” She’d1 had one owner from new, and that owner had been Deirdre Young.

Deirdre loved Maggie May, but she’d be the first2 to admit she didn’t look after her particularly well. She tended to assume that if Maggie May had full tires, working windshield wipers and brakes, and there were no funny noises coming from under the bonnet, then they could continue on their carefree adventures together. It was the same sort of approach that, when applied to a piece of furniture or a child’s doll, leads people to call the item “well-loved.”

Deirdre was fast beginning to regret this approach.

She turned the key. Like a teenager being called downstairs for breakfast, Maggie May turned over, groaned, but refused to get going. Deirdre tried turning the key again. Maggie May whined, and turned over more slowly. She turned the key a third time. Maggie May wheezed and refused to turn over at all.

“Shit.” Deirdre thumped the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, _shit._ ”

She’d just come from her first antenatal class. Deirdre had yet to decide where she wanted to give birth, so she’d opted for an unaffiliated, community class in Oxford. (They had fliers for over a dozen nearby hospitals and birthing centers, on a folding table by the tea and biscuits. Deirdre had snatched one of each.) The instructor was a retired midwife in jade jewelry and a hemp tunic. The class would meet the next six Saturday mornings in a rented conference room at the edge of a retail park.

A couple from the class walked past: Laura and Mike Anderson. Deirdre thought of asking them for help, then decided against it. The Andersons didn’t strike her as the sort of people who would drive a near-stranger home to the Cotswolds, or even to the nearest mechanic. Especially not on the day of the FA Cup.3 The game would start in just two hours, and the good seats were filling up in pubs and restaurants across the country. Deirdre watched as the Andersons headed for a franchise “sports bar and grille” at the far end of the retail park. She pasted on a smile and waved.

Honestly, Deirdre didn’t think she’d really _want_ a lift from the Andersons. Laura Anderson had smirked at the small stack of pregnancy and baby books Deirdre brought with her. She grinned outright when Helen, the instructor, told Deirdre to set them aside. And Mike Anderson had spent most of the class giving the hairy eyeball to the coolest-looking woman in the room. (More on her in a minute.)

Once the Andersons were a safe distance off, Deirdre got out and popped the bonnet. She squinted at Maggie May’s engine and murmured to herself. Not because she knew what she was looking at, but because it’s what people _do._ She got back in. She turned the key again once, twice, three times. Nothing.

She could pop into M&S and get a mechanic’s number from Customer Service. But Arthur would inevitably disapprove of any mechanic she picked without his help. So she rang the house. The call went to ansaphone.

She rang Arthur’s mobile and, after six rings, hung up and rolled her eyes. Old codger4 still hadn’t set the bloody thing up. Deirdre had bought Arthur a mobile last month, in case he wasn’t nearby when she went into labor. As she was only five months along, she imagined it would lie inert in the back of his sock drawer for the next three and a half months or so.

She got back out, thumped her fists on Maggie’s roof and kicked the hubcaps. This is also what people do when their cars break down, although some are loath to admit to it.

She thought of the game day party she’d planned. Deirdre had promised Arthur all his football favorites. Sausage rolls with all the dipping sauces he liked. Her Pimm’s cocktails that had been famous among their Swindon friends. Now she’d never have the time to prepare it all. Arthur would pop down to the pub, glad to be relieved of hosting duties. And Deirdre would lose her chance to impress Arthur’s mum, or get to know their new neighbors…

She kicked a hubcap again. Then a line from Maggie’s namesake song popped into her brain, panging her with guilt.

_Oh Maggie, I couldn’t have tried any more._

She gave the car’s roof a conciliatory pat. “Sorry, Maggie.” She choked back a sob. “I’m so sorry…” 

Stupid FA Cup. Stupid Andersons. Stupid sausage rolls. Stupid hormones, making all of this feel so damn _meaningful._ As if she was letting her mother down…

“You alright?”

The coolest-looking woman in the class sauntered up. Before just now, Deirdre wouldn’t have thought it possible to _saunter_ well into one’s second trimester, but this woman made it look easy. Must have been the mile-long legs and loose, swaying hips.

“I’m… I’m fine.” Deirdre scrambled in her purse for a tissue. “It’s just- Well, my car’s dead, and my husband’s not answering his phone, and I’m _this close_ to ringing a taxi just so that I can get home and make these stupid sausage rolls… It just…” She sniffed. “It’s all a bit much, you know?”

“Sure, yeah. Deirdre, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hm. You’re Crowley5, right?”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched upward. “Yes. I am.” She extended her hand. Deirdre shook it. “Need a lift home?”

“Oh I couldn’t,” Deirdre winced. “I must be miles out of your way. We’re in the Cotswolds, in this little village called Tadfield-“

“Off the A-40? Past the airbase, the two crossroads one right after the other, then a couple miles down Forest Hill Lane til you make the U-turn at the church?” Crowley asked. Her directions came complete with loose, squiggly hand gestures.

“Erm, yeah. How did you-?”

“I’m staying there for the summer,” said Crowley. “The village, I mean. Not the church. I’ll give you a lift.”

She started off across the car park. Deirdre stared after her. Crowley had gorgeous hair: thick and wavy, coppery red, tied back in a sleek low half-bun. She stopped, turned back and waved Deirdre along.

“Well come on!”

Crowley led the way to a large, black, vintage car. They6 were a 1933 Bentley 3 ½ Litre. And like Maggie May, they’d had just one owner from new.

*****

“So. Why’s your car called Maggie?” Crowley asked mildly, as she sped up through a yellow light on the way out of town.

“It was my mum’s idea,” Deirdre smiled fondly. “Well. Sort of. She came with me to the car dealer’s. As we were leaving, she said, ‘Let’s give it a name. First song to come on the radio with a girl’s name in it, that’s what we’ll use.’ Just then, Rod Stewart’s ‘Maggie May’ came on. We figured it was meant to be.”

“Hm,” said Crowley. Her expression was inscrutable behind her designer sunglasses.7. Deirdre suddenly felt a bit silly. Crowley wore all black and snakeskin boots. She had a very expensive-looking watch, and a state-of-the-art satellite radio retrofitted in her vintage car. She probably didn’t think too highly of housewives in light cardies and empire-waisted sundresses, especially ones who named economy coupes after cheesy folk songs.

They swung up the ramp to the A-40 on two wheels. Deirdre yelped and clutched the grab handle.8

“My sausage rolls aren’t _that_ important!”

“Wha? Oh. Right. Sorry.”

Crowley eased off the accelerator. The speedometer fell back below ninety, eighty, seventy. Crowley scanned the view ahead slowly, casually, like a Sunday driver. The radio played Queen. Some of their earlier, artsy stuff, by the sound of it.

 _As he puffed his pipe and Baby B he dandled on his knee,_ Brian May crooned.

They made it to Forest Hill Lane in record time. Once off the highway, Crowley slowed down- but only a little. The forest still whipped past their windows. 

Out of the blue, she mused: “S’pose you got off easy. Could’ve been stuck with a car named Jolene. Or Sharona.”

Deirdre laughed. “Or Cecilia.”

“Cecilia’s nice.”

“Not to Paul Simon, she isn’t.”

“Hm. Fair point,” said Crowley.

Deirdre felt a bit more at ease now. “I like your t-shirt,” she said. Beneath her black denim jacket, Crowley wore a maternity t-shirt that said, I LIKE TO THINK WINE MISSES ME, TOO.

“Thanks. Honestly, I thought it’d get more laughs.”

“I think the others were just intimidated,” Deirdre said. Crowley looked at her9 and slowly arched an eyebrow over the top of her sunglasses. Just when Deirdre started kicking herself for saying the wrong thing, Crowley shrugged amiably.

“Guess so. I thought maybe they were freezing me out for not bringing a ‘spouse, life partner, or birthing companion’ to class.”

“Well, that too,” said Deirdre. “I got some funny looks, coming alone.”

“At least _you’ve_ least got a ring, though.”

“How d’you know I’m not just wearing it to avoid suspicion?” Deirdre teased. Crowley just grinned.

They squealed into Tadfield like a bat out of hell. “Shit,” Crowley hissed. “Sorry. Forgot,” She slowed to 30 miles an hour. Slow enough for Deirdre to feel safe, but fast enough to annoy R.P. Tyler.10 Perfect.

“You’re fine. Oh, I’m down that way, on Hogback Lane,” said Deirdre, pointing across the village green.

“Before Jasmine Cottage or past it?”

“About half a mile past. Ooh!”

It clicked for Deirdre then. Crowley didn’t strike her as the type to rent a room in someone else’s house. And Jasmine Cottage was the only standalone home for rent in all of Tadfield.

“Is that where you’re staying, then?”

“What, Jasmine Cottage? Yeah. I’m doing that thing where you patch the place up and the Preservation Society knocks off a chunk of your rent.”

“Oh that’s brilliant!”

“Really?” The arched eyebrow made an encore appearance. “You’re the first person to say that, instead of, _Young lady, given your ‘delicate condition’, shouldn’t you let your husband do all the work? For that matter, shouldn’t you HAVE a husband to do all the work?”_

“I see you’ve met R.P. Tyler,” said Deirdre.

Crowley gave a short, barking laugh.

“Honestly, though! So long as you’re not re-tiling the roof or pulling out asbestos, I’m sure you’re fine. In fact,” Deirdre smiled, “ring me if you want any help with the garden. Those hedges need whipping into shape.”

“You’re telling me?” Crowley grumbled.

“Oh! Here’s my house,” Deirdre pointed out.

Crowley pulled up smoothly and shifted the car into park. Deirdre struggled with the door. Crowley snapped her fingers, glanced at the passenger door, frowned. Deirdre didn’t know what that was all about. Then Crowley started to lean over her.

“It’s fine, really,” Deirdre laughed nervously. “I think I’ve got it…”

The door stayed stuck. Crowley reached across Deirdre. After a drive refreshingly devoid of baby-related chitchat, Deirdre was suddenly all too aware that they were both rather pregnant. They were squished together, belly to belly. Crowley’s t-shirt rode up a little as she tried to wriggle past. Deirdre felt her baby kick Crowley’s. She wondered if she should apologize, like she would have if her child had shoved another on the playground.

Crowley reached the handle easily enough- being long and lanky, apart from her bump. But she had no more luck than Deirdre at opening the door. She scowled, then made an odd, Spiderman-like gesture. As if she was trying to push an invisible force out of her hand and into the handle. Obviously, it had no effect.

“Sorry. This never happened b- …back in London.”

“It’s alright,” Deirdre grunted. It took both of them, shoving and maneuvering, to get Crowley off her. Deirdre noticed that Crowley’s hair was even more gorgeous up close. Her perfume smelled very sophisticated, musky and a bit spicy. It might have actually been a men’s cologne11, for all Deirdre could tell.

Deirdre almost got a glimpse of Crowley’s eyes through the sunglasses, before Crowley screwed them shut.

“You alright?”

“Yeah. It’s just- my eyes…”

Crowley finally managed to pull herself back. She adjusted her glasses straightaway- even before pulling her t-shirt back down. Then she got out, came around and opened Deirdre’s door from the outside. She waved Deirdre out with a tongue-in-cheek little bow. Deirdre giggled.

“Thanks for the lift.”

“Don’t mention it. Oh, and call me if you need a ride back to Oxford or anything.”

“I’ve got a sinking feeling Maggie May’s gonna be spending the night in that car park,” Deirdre fretted. “I hope she doesn’t get lonely.”

“I’m sure she won’t. People at that restaurant’ll be getting drunk, leaving their cars. They’ll keep her company.”

Deirdre was at a loss. Forget naming cars for cheesy songs: the coolest girl in the class just full-on anthropomorphized them. There was an awkward pause. Crowley dug her hands in the front pockets of her jeans,12 hunched her shoulders and looked at the ground.

“Right. Erm, yeah. Good luck with the sausage rolls.”

She slouched back around the car, swung herself into the driver’s seat, then sped off.

 _Well,_ Deirdre thought. _That was a thing._

*****

1\. Only eight percent of personal transport vehicles actually identify as female. Maggie May happened to be one of them; however, Deirdre’s affirmation of her car’s gender had less to do with a motorist’s intuition, and more to do with sheer luck.

2\. Or possibly the second, after her petrolhead husband. Arthur Young made a weekend ritual of cleaning, waxing, and tinkering with his 1960 Morris Minor 1000. The Morris Minor was among the 60% of personal transport vehicles who identify as agender. Like hundreds of thousands of cars, lorries, boats, and motor scooters worldwide, the Morris Minor was misgendered as “she” by their male owner. For this, we can blame the patriarchal assumption that vehicles- like women, supposedly- exist to be revered, cared for, and used by men.

3\. Chelsea versus Manchester United. Chelsea would win 1-0 in extra time, in case you were wondering.

4\. The Youngs were both in their late thirties, making Deirdre an “elderly” first-time mum, and Arthur rather precocious to be an old codger.

5\. During roll call in the antenatal class, the instructor had called her “Antonia Crowley.” The following conversation ensued:  
**Crowley:** Just call me Crowley, thanks.  
**Helen:** Are you sure, love? We’re among friends, here.  
**C:** My friends call me Crowley.  
**H:** You sure they don’t call you Tonia?  
**C:** Nope.  
**H:** Or Toni, perhaps? Or erm… or…?  
**C:** …Are you finished?  
**H:** Well I suppose I am, Ms. Crowley.  
**C (sighing):** Alright, fine.

6\. Crowley’s car identified as genderfluid, like 24% of personal vehicles- and also like their owner.

7\. She’d worn the sunglasses throughout the entire antenatal class, much to Helen the instructor’s chagrin.

8\. Also known as “chicken bars,” “oh shit handles,” or as Deirdre and her uni friends used to call them, “Jesus H. Christ handles.” Crowley had had the Bentley’s grab bar installed in the 1950’s, at the request of a certain regular passenger.

9\. Deirdre really would have preferred if Crowley had kept her eyes on the road while doing 50 miles an hour down Forest Hill Lane.

10\. Ronald P. Tyler was the Chairman of the Tadfield Residents’ Association, treasurer of the Greater Tadfield Area Historical Preservation Society, and frequent contributor to the Letters to the Editor section of the Tadfield _Advertiser._ In the unlikely event that he didn’t personally witness Crowley careering through Tadfield, his colleagues would surely inform him of it in scandalized tones within the next twenty-four hours.

11\. This would have only increased Crowley’s “cool factor” in Deirdre’s mind. She had no qualms with unconventionality, as it were. At uni, she’d been friends with all the theatre kids.

12\. A maneuver that would become much less suave, then eventually impossible, in the weeks to come.


End file.
